


Warhammer 40,000: Invictum Lamina

by Orangejuicehero



Category: Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Dark, Gen, Mystery, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-02-17 04:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2295941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orangejuicehero/pseuds/Orangejuicehero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To the Imperium she is a myth. To the Astartes she is a legend. To the Dark Angels she is a saint. To the heretic she is a nightmare made manifest. Glorious were the days when she walked amongst living men, with a flame in her breast and a blade in her hand. Yet Fate is a cruel mistress, for when the Night Haunter lay slain and the path to Terra lay open, the Warp say fit to claim her beauty and glory for its own. Now, almost ten millennia later, the drums of war beat softly no longer, and her vengeance shall mark a new era for humanity. But betrayal and deceit lie past every corner, and the codes of honor and justice have no place in a world where there is only war and the laughter of thirsting gods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Invictum in Mors

_It is the 41st Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries The Emperor has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the Master of Mankind by the will of the gods, and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. He is a rotting carcass writhing invisibly with power from the Dark Age of Technology. He is the Carrion Lord of the Imperium for whom a thousand souls are sacrificed every day, so that he may never truly die._

_Yet even in his deathless state, the Emperor continues his eternal vigilance. Mighty battlefleets cross the daemon-infested miasma of the Warp, the only route between distant stars, their way lit by the Astronomican, the psychic manifestation of the Emperor's will. Vast armies give battle in his name on uncounted worlds. Greatest amongst his soldiers are the Adeptus Astartes, the Space Marines, bio-engineered super-warriors. Their comrades in arms are legion: the Imperial Guard and countless planetary defence forces, the ever vigilant Inquisition and the tech-priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus to name only a few. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat from aliens, heretics, mutants - and worse._

_On the fringes of the Eye of Terror, an ancient vessel has been recovered from the Warp. It bears the mark of the mighty_ Camlann _, favored cruiser of a lost relic: a legendary Astartes who’s infamous tale resonates across the galaxy even millennia after the Horus Heresy. Now the fabled hero returns, but the Ruinous Powers are ever changing, and the roots of heresy grow ever deeper and stronger in the hearts of men. Forget the power of technology and science, for so much has been forgotten, never to be re-learned. Forget the codes of honor and justice, for in the grim dark future…_

 

**/]O[\**

_“There is only war.”_

“You say something, Johann?”

The bespectacled Guardsmen did not bother to look up from his console, for his answer was most effectively conveyed through silence. Halvdan Brauhn had no appreciation for his station, one of the most critical jobs on the station. All he did was slack off and chat up that wench from Maintenance, whose zipper was obviously eight millimeters too low the regulations. If one was hyped up enough Commissariat rhetoric, one might mistake her for a Slaaneshi heretic.

For a moment, Johann paused. He’ll have to put a pin in that one.

For the Emperor, of course.

Storing this thought for later, Johann returned to his work. Of course, there was no work to do aboard Orbital Defence Station Argus. No Chaos Fleet to engage, no Tyranid invaders to advance in the opposite direction from, not even an Eldar Craftworld to purge. Throne of Terra, Johann could at least ask for something to stimulate him.

“Yo, Johann, you listening?”

Even a Black Crusade is better than _him_.

“Yes, Hal, I heard you.”

There was the ruffling of foil accompanied by loud crunching.

“And?” Hal questioned between swallows.

Johann swiveled his chair about, the unamused expression on his face causing Halvdan to wince slightly. The bulky Guardsman had a youthful complexion, soft but with a hint of steel, like one of Holy Terra’s ancient sculptures. He was a fit Guardsmen, black of hair and rippling with the muscles that wench from Maintenance found sound awe-inspiring. However, in the confines of his chair, and in broader terms, Orbital Defence Station Argus, he had grown sloth and messy. Hal’s machinations of glory on the battlefield had no place in the role of a glorified housesitter

Hal was lounging in his chair, his booted feet smashed atop the various analog screens and keyboards. In his right hand was a ripped bag of rations, and in his left sat the rations in question, the chocolate cookies being devoured voraciously by the Guardsman. For a moment no one spoke, the only sound being the air circulation and Hal’s furious chewing.

Finally, realization came to Johann. “Hal, are those…”

Halvdan paused his spirited assault on the rations and nodded. “You left them in your locker, and since you looked like you weren’t going to eat ‘em, I borrowed them.”

If rapid motion could be harnessed as a fuel source, Johann’s twitching eye could power the Golden Throne for months.

“You... _borrowed_ them?”

“Yes.”

“From my locker?”

“Affirmative.”

“The one I put three locks on and a facial recognition scanner?”

Hal paused idly and mulled over this thought. “...Yes.”

Silence permeated the control deck. Several Imperial Navy vessels passed by the viewports on their route to the iridescent blue orb in the distance, Cadia. Slowly, Hal reached into the bag and withdrew a cookie, broken apart by the Guard’s furious attack. He held it out to Johann expectantly, his face still covered in a half hungering, half apologetic mask.

“Want one?”

Silence again, this time broken by Johann’s weary sigh. “Some days I just loathe you, Hal.”

“And what about other days?”

“Other days I want to kill you.”

Hal blinked, but instead of replying, he resigned to shrug and bite into the cookie. Johann shook his head and returned to his console. He muttered a prayer to the Emperor when he looks at the various instruments across the board. No new contacts had appeared, no messages from command, nothing. Signal detail over Cadia was turning out to be nowhere near as exciting as it he had imagined.

Of course, that meant more of Hal. Perhaps if Johann was lucky, the lady from maintenance would stop by and keep what little remained of his attention span on her chest than on Johann’s suffering. Inwardly, Johann shamed himself for such a statement, and his treatment of Hal as a whole. ‘A fine mind is a blessing of the Emperor - It should not be cluttered with trivialities’, as Corporal Noctus would say.

“Umm...Johann?”

Except Corporal Noctus wasn’t doing Signal detail today.

“Johann…?”

Johann buried his face in his hands. Was it too much to have but a moment of silence? A moment to cleanse from his mind Hal’s idiotic speech over the colors of women’s undergarments? Even a brief moment of quiet to clear those moronic cat picts from his memory was enough!

“J-johann…”

That was it. The last straw.

“Throne of Terra, Hal! I already said you could have the cookie, so could you~”

But Johann noticed that Hal was addressing him. The Guardsman was staring out the viewport, the bag of sweets having fallen to the floor when Halvdan dropped them. The man was slack-jawed and frozen, as if Abaddon the Despoiler himself had appeared before him and subsequently encased the poor soul in stone. He had stopped all but his breathing.

When Johann followed his gaze, he could see why.

The two Guardsmen were so stunned, they completely ignored Sergeant Cassis as he barged in, his footfalls hard and echoing, his voice a malevolent choir worthy of a Commissar.

“What did you frak up this time, maggots?! Every frakking sensor on this station is…”

The Sergeant was soon to follow in his two subordinates’ footsteps.

“Emperor guide me, that is a _big_ one.”

 

**/]O[\**

Now, Hal did not fancy himself a genius. ‘Tactical prodigy and strategic mastery is best left to the higher-ups’, Sergeant Cassis would say, and Halvdan could not help but agree with him. Your average Guardsman could never live up the great deeds of the venerable Commissars, or hope to wage war against the xenos foe like the resilient Chapter Masters of the Adeptus Astartes could. However, there must come a time where even the lowliest of soldier must make up his own plans.

And Hal could assure himself that his was a _brilliant_ plan.

“You’re going to get us both killed!”

Hal looked down at his comrade, eyebrow arched. Johann drummed his fingers nervously against the newly... _borrowed_ Hotshot Lasgun and periodically readjusted his glasses with quaking hands. Honestly, Halvdan could not see fault the fault in his scheme. Every miniscule detail had been accounted for. Johannes must surely be able to see the genius behind his plan, and chooses only to ignore it out of fear.

“Please, Johann! You're going to blow our cover!” Hal whispered to his shaking friend. Johann was only further irritated by this, and returned to his habits. Hal left his friend to his business, and instead he pursued what might cause a hitch in his plan.

After a short but well-deserved chasting from the sergeant, Halvdan went about formulating his plot. The uniforms were genuine, as were the weapons and orders. Luckily, they lacked proper identification and thus let Hal adlib the remainder of the operation. While the Guardsman did not question the abilities of his superiors, the flawless aspects of his plan could fool the High Lords of Terra themselves.

“Relax,” Hal reassured his companion. “You’ve got no reason to be a sissy, Johann. Our cover is _perfect_.”

“And the Stormtroopers?”

Hal mused over this thought for a moment. “I’m sure they won’t mind us borrowing their things for a while. Once the mission’s done and we’re relieved, we’ll just give the stuff back.”

“I don’t think the tall one will ever walk normally again,” Johann seethed.

Hal was silenced by this. His force of arms may have been a bit excessive, but these were Stormtroopers. Hardened warriors of the Imperial Guard, trained to kill heretics and xenos alike with their bare hands. They were trained from birth to be the closest counterpart of a Space Marine that the Astra Militarum could produce. Their minds could only give and take orders, and their brawny forms were so great in power that even their muscles had muscles.

Hal was at no degree jealous of this...not even a little.

…

Okay, maybe a tiny bit jealous. Just a _tiny_ bit.

Hal made sure to wipe away the tear from his eye.

Service Lift #43 of Orbital Defence Station Argus ground to a halt. The massive bulkhead door before them opened to reveal Hangar Bay #12, a bustling hive of activity as fighter compliments from both the station and Battlefleet Cadia were armed and fueled. The thirty or so Guard troopers, tech-priests and maintenance personnel on the lift flooded out into the chaos, their tools of trade be it lasgun, mechadendrite, or wrench. Fortunately, the passengers had given the two ‘Stormtroopers’ a wide berth and left Hal and Johann to argue in peace.

The Stormtrooper uniform looked a tad too big for Johannes’ frame, the black armor plates and maroon fatigues sagging in areas. The helmet sat awkwardly on Johann’s head, who's thin and brittle features were shadowed by the helm. By virtue (or lack thereof) of heredity, Johannes Cheval possessed the meek frame of his grandfather, but where his grandfather was a daring man, Johann was a slave to regulation.

Sergeant Cassis would berate Hal for such a declaration, but he would be quelled if he viewed example A:

“When Sergeant Cassis finds out, or, Emperor help us, _Commissar Briansky_ , we're going to be executed on the spot!”

Internally, Hal groaned. Externally, he grabbed the smaller Guard by the collar and propelled him forward. “They’ll never find out. The Stormtroopers never saw us, the mission is short, and Commissar Briansky isn't even onboard the station.”

“And when the Commissar _does_ return?”

Hal grinned. “‘A suspicious mind is a healthy mind.’”

Johann fumed, but continued walking until both he and Hal had exited the lift and were deep within the bustling confusion of Hangar Bay #12. “And the transfer orders?”

Hal fumbled through his pocket and produced a wrinkled parchment covered in the frivolous grandness of High Gothic text. Hal looked over the piece before returning it to its hiding place and shrugging.

“I can’t read High Gothic,” Hal stated. “But trust me on this one, Johann. I’m a _genius_.”

Johann rolled his eyes behind his spectacles. “Yes, of course! Everyone, look and behold! It’s frakking Creed reborn!”

Hal frowned and elbowed his companion in the side.

The two continued for some time through the organized chaos of the hangar. In the distance lay the unmistakable hulk of a Thunderhawk, painted in the forest green of the revered Dark Angels Chapter. As the two neared closer, the lethal screen of Heavy Bolters and massive dorsal Battle Cannon became visible, along with the numerous victory marks along the hull.

But Hal was not focused on the ship itself, but instead on what lay before the craft.

The hulking forms of several veteran Astartes dominated the scene. They were resplendent in their bleached Terminator armor, covered in honor marks and purity seals. In their hands were a variety of weapons ranging from Storm Bolters to, in one Marine’s case, a Heavy Flamer. Hal felt his heart skip a beat as he stared upon the young demigods with wide eyes and a faltering pace. Johannes had a similar thought, and almost tripped over a mechanic’s toolbox.

Next to the Terminators was a slightly smaller detachment. The warriors of the Adepta Sororitas gleamed in their polished black armor and crimson robes, most having hidden their faces beneath their white-on-black helms. The only unhelmeted Sister was whom Hal guessed was the leader, with slightly more decorative armor. Her hair was the same bleached white as her order, but grown down to the small of her back and tied into a simple ponytail behind her neck. Her eyes were striking: vibrant red orbs framed by soft, feminine features and laced with a sort of experience only a Sister of Battle could hold.

And then there was the centerpiece of this awing painting. The Lord Inquisitor was a dark figure, covered in shining black plate and a dark grey coat. He was as tall as Hal in his attire, yet with the thin structure of Johann, punctuated by an almost sickly looking face covered in stubble and laced with fatigue . He shared no similarities when it came to hair, the Inquisitor’s being a surprisingly organized bulge of spiky black hair. He looked a fidgety sort of man, tapping the odd-looking firearm at his waist periodically and glancing about the hangar bay in expectation.

“Report.”

Hal was snapped from his trance to find himself before the Inquisitor. Horrified, Hal snapped into a crisp salute and a rigid bow. Johann, similarly surprised, did the same. The Inquisitor arched an eyebrow, but decided to overlook this. Hal withdrew from his pocket the transfer orders and handed them to the man.

“Names?” asked the Inquisitor, eyes having not darted from the parchment.

“Bernhardt Klemperer, My Lord,” Hal declared.

With a curious glance towards his comrade, Johann followed suit. “Erik Barishnikov, My lord.”

The Inquisitor finished reading the transfer orders with the ghost of a frown on his face, then looked up to address the two Stormtroopers. “Very well. Have you been briefed on the situation?”

“No sir.”

The Inquisitor nodded and turned about. A brief nod was cast to the unhelmeted Sister of Battle, who replied by bringing up a pict projection of the object of Hal and Johann’s attention hours prior. It was brutish thing, a large eyesore combined with the grainy feed of the pict. The wrecks of starships of various makes, models, and races littered its exterior. The Inquisitor huffed at the sight of the graveyard and turned to the Sororitas.

“Sister Superior?”

The Sister nodded. “This is the Space Hulk _Reaper of Stars_ ,” she began, gesturing to the pict. “It has a mass of thirty-four point eight trillion tonnes, an albedo point of eight-seven, gravitic displacement…”

Hal droned out the rest of the woman’s speech. She continued to describe the attributes of the Space Hulk in her melodic voice, soothing to the ears yet betraying a sliver of disgust towards the agglomeration. In honesty, Halvdan was more concerned with her face, truly a beauty of the Imperium. She was a pale thing, but a pretty sort of pale, cloaking her features with smooth skin save for a dainty little scar beside her left eye. Had the Sister Superior not said something of interest, Hal would have kept staring for hours.

“Estimates of the composition place around two-hundred and fifty-seven vessels. Of which, only fifty have a habitable atmosphere.”

This was when the Inquisitor intruded. “And of that number, only one is sending out a distress signal.”

Hal had to pause at this. A distress signal from a Space Hulk? The Guard was no expert on these celestial bodies, but these congregations of ancient vessels were thousands of years old. Even if the hulk was fairly new, it couldn’t have been formed any less than five millennia ago. To still produce power sufficient enough to send out a signal was unheard. Even more confusing, to be able to send out a signal without constant maintenance for so long. The pict in the Sister’s hand flickered and changed to the view of a vessel.

It was at this point that one of the Astartes goliaths had joined the group, winged helmet tucked in its arm to give Hal a decent view of its face. Had it not been for the respirator, his surprise would be out for all to see.

The woman was a sickly form of pale, nowhere near the beauty of the Sister Superior. Her hazelnut hair was trimmed short and converged in a bun, though unkept and straying at the forehead. While the Adepta’s face was cursed with but a single scar, the Terminator’s visage was completely screened in marks of battle, the wounds criss-crossing here and there like a morbid board of chess. Her left eyes was an emerald green that had lost its luster with the passage of time, while the woman’s right eye was a mechanical prosthetic, a red orb left unblinking.

“It is originating from Strike Cruiser, as fitting of the title ‘archeotech’ as it could get. The Machine-Spirit operating the signal has long since devolved into ramblings. Techmarine Avaritas is currently working to decode the message, but it will take time.”

“Have you picked up any life signs aboard the vessel, Veteran-Sergeant Dionysia?” the Lord Inquisitor started.

The Terminator shook her head. “No, My Lord. The inner sanctum of the vessel is heavily armored, and Brother Pontero’s scans cannot penetrate the hull.”

“And that is why we shall be mounting an assault.”

The vox-filtered voice approached from the Thunderhawk, accompanied by the clunking footfalls of Terminator armor. Veteran-Sergeant Dionysia gave a silent sigh and muttered something beneath her breath before twisting her torso to meet the newcomer.

“Brother Pontero,” she began carefully. “I do not think your expertise is necessary on this venture. Brother Zakerias will be more than honored to carry out the mission.”

There was the flapping of parchment in the wind as the new Terminator turned to address his Sergeant. “Zakerias is a new-blood. We need our best for this mission.”

Before Hal was a hulking figure, similarly decked in Deathwing Terminator plate like his brethren. He was fully kitted out, Storm Bolter in his right hand and a Chainfist taking up the other. The powered gauntlet was massive, easily dwarfing both Halvdan and Johannes, and its reputation was only reinforced by the shining chain weapon mounted beneath. Both a breaching tool and a lethal weapon.

But that was not the most interesting sight. All across the armored figure were placed the wax seals of the Reclusiam, holding in place the flittering strips of parchment that were known as purity seals. The Guardsman had never seen so many in his life, despite the regular visits of Astartes Reclusiarchs and Marines from the various Chapters of the Astartes Praeses. They congregated on the helmet, chest and Boltgun like a swarm of large red flies threatening to consume him whole if not for the various tomes of prayer at his waist.

If Dionysia was annoyed, she hid it well. The Veteran-Sergeant merely paused for thought and nodded. To deny this pious Battle-Brother of battle would be a dangerous notion.

“Then everything is in order,” the Inquisitor announced. “We leave now.”

The Sister Superior was taken aback by this and turned to halt the Inquisitor. “Lord Tohsaka and the Mechanicus representatives have yet to arrive, my lord.”

The agent grunted, but Hal could see the slimmer of a grin on his face. “Time is a commodity we do not have. They can pick apart the wreck we shall leave them.”

The Terminator Sergeant nodded with a grim smile and adorned her helm. “A moment of laxity spawns a lifetime of heresy.”

At these words, Halvdan felt his stomach flip. Perhaps brilliance came in different forms.


	2. Vault

_“What is your life?”_

_The photolenses stared back at me, accusing and ashamed. Like a crown, it was heavy upon my brow. It saw me unfit to bear such a burden, this winged helm whose mere sight commanded the gaze of a thousand brothers. I answered just to spite it._

_“What is your fate?”_

_My hand trembled slightly in attempts to lift it. My sword had similarly damned me. The adamantium blade, the slayer of a thousand foes and a god himself, had seen my actions and judged them unfit of worth. To it, I was a fool, a warrior without honor. The codes I had lived to exemplify were but dead leaves in the wind. I replied just to rile it._

_“What is your fear?”_

_My armor pitied me, but was no kinder. For a thousand years we had served each other, two parts of a beautiful machine. Yet it reared back in disgust at the very mention of my name. It shuddered and froze and quaked with every step I took. It dared for combat, to betray me in the throes of warfare and leave me to slaughter. I returned the oath to mock it._

_“What is your reward?”_

_My pistol cursed me as well. Once a magnificent labor of the forges, it lay dormant at my side. Every useless pull of its trigger drove me to despair. It saw me as a thief, a liar and a traitor. I was a honorless cad in its gaze. The words I spoke made it holler in anger._

_“What is your craft?”_

_Ever the caring brother, my Bolter had joined my pistol in silent judgement. It no longer accepted the projectiles that gave it life and opted instead to remain silent. Many years before, it would roar with laughter and pride against the enemies of our growing empire. Now it lay dormant at the base of my throne. My reprise gave it a heated pause._

_“What is your pledge.”_

_My brothers...oh Emperor, my brothers. They were my family, my sisters and brothers and cousins and nephews. Our hearts had beat as one and our tongues spoke as legion. I loved them like a father would love his son,a bond unbreakable. Now they looked upon me with uncertainty and fear, contempt and pity. My deafening cry muted even their critiques._

_I sighed._

_“Brother Pellinore, tell the Astropath to prepare entrance into the Warp. Our destination is Terra.”_

 

**/]O[\**

Light flooded through the cockpit viewports of the  _Sanctus Inferno_. First was the blinding yellow-white from the single sun in the Cadian Sector, followed by the iridescent shades of the Eye of Terror, the massive Warp storm that hung over the Fortress World of Cadia like a vengeful spirit of an enemy. The simile was lost on Damocles. The finer points of literacy had always been Vesuvius' hobby.

Damocles had not been literate when he joined the Chapter. His life in the Demetrius Hive was harried with dangers, so he had little time for learning. At most, he could speak Low Gothic fluently, and read too, but writing was conundrum to Damocles. Upon recruitment into the Chapter and successfully passing the numerous tests and modifications, Brother Vesuvius sought to fix that.

Vesuvius was not an aged astartes, but his battlefield experience made up for his relative youth. On all the parts of his face that weren't covered by tattoos, Ves had enough scars to make even a White Scars veteran blush. As typical of the Excoriators, each battle honor was marked with description detailing where it was earned, when it was achieved, and holy litanies procured by Chaplain Delikon. His sharp, angular features were almost lost in the daze, but his two blue-green eyes still showed vibrantly.

His armor showed similar wear. The cream-colored armor was pock-marked with scorch marks and cuts, and even a bullet hole where a stray Bolt round had pierced the chestplate beneath the Imperial Aquila. The red fist on his left pauldron was slashed diagonally , bisecting the badge in a way that made the Squad Whip chuckle at its sight.

"The Eye of Terror," the elder Astartes began, as if recounting an old fable. "The critical breach in the hull of a Titan. While seemingly miniscule compared to the hulking mass of firepower, a gap such as this can unleash total and utter decimation upon us. It makes me shudder at the thought."

"Ever the paragon of poetry," Damocles replied with mock praise. "Continue like this, and you shall soon find yourself the Master of Rites."

Vesuvius gave a quiet chuckle. "No, I think I am content with being a soldier. Leave the wise old men to the leading and I'll stick with the fighting."

Damocles nodded. He was nowhere near the level of experience as Vesuvius, and it showed. His face was almost bare of honor marks save two scars that ran down beside his right eye. A well-trimmed black goatee concealed his chin and mouth, and similar with the mop of hair on his head. His armor, while not as roughened as his comrade's, was stilled riddled with battle marks. In particular, a large gash ran down the center of the chestplate, bisecting the Imperial Aquila.

It was at that point that it appeared.

The  _Reaper of Stars_  lurched into the view of the Thunderhawk. The mass of metal and rock floated aimlessly in space, escorted by hundreds of vessels belonging to Battlefleet Cadia. Set apart from them, a cruiser in green panoply lay motionless in the void. A thought crossed Damocles' mind and was met with a sneer on his face. As he reached for the ivory helm at his waist, Vesuvius raised his eyebrow.

Damocles did not need the question relayed. "We are the Astartes Praeses, Vesuvius," he began with an edge of hostility. " _We_  are the defenders of the Segmentum Obscurus. While I do not scorn our brothers, their presence is unnecessary."

Vesuvius shook his head. "They are our brothers, Damocles. We should be thankful that they were here in our absence."

The  _Sanctus Inferno_  had come prepared when news of the Hulk had reached Eschara. Two squads of honored veterans in Terminator plate had been mustered, with Tactical Squad Helion acting as the honor guard for the VIP. The entire strikeforce was shocked to learn their cousins of the First Legion had beat them to the punch.

Damocles did not budge. "I do not know, Vesuvius. Veteran-Sergeant Kaine describes them as shady men, always with their secrets and ulterior motives. That they are here should give us pause."

The elder Astartes lowered. He was familiar with Lyman Kaine: an intelligent and cynical man who headed one of  _Sanctus Inferno's_  two Terminator Squads. His outlooks on his fellow Marines were well-known and hard to ignore.

"You must always take Kaine's musings with a pinch of salt, brother. He has always been one for harshness," he stated, more akin to an adult lecturing their child than a discussion between soldiers. "We must learn to put aside our differences for the betterment of the Imperium. Whip Helion would be shocked to learn you harbor such thoughts of your kin.

"Yes I would."

Whip Helion was fully decked in armor, the brilliant ivory leading up to his red helm. His arms, both mechanical prosthetics earned from a particularly spirited daemon in the Gothic War, were crossed over his chest, the crimson of his photolenses bored into Damocles like hot pokers. Just by his silence, the younger Marine could tell his Sergeant was on the brink of spacing him.

"And for your remarks," Helion continued, adding stressed authority and calm to his voice. "You will be the one to tell the Lord Inquisitor that the  _Unto Darkness_  has docked with the Space Hulk."

The pokers finally left their mark as Damocles fists clenched. He did not dare assert his case to the Whip, and instead dawned his helm and Bolter and proceeded forward. Vesuvius watched him go with a slight frown. Helion moved aside to let his subordinate pass.

"Damocles is too cynical for his own good," Helion muttered through his vox-grille. He turned to Vesuvius. "How long do you give him?"

The Astartes shrugged. "Three, at the most."

A pause.

" _ **HE WHAT?!**_ "

 

**/]O[\**

If the outside of the Hulk was disgusting, it's interior would make even a hardened veteran vomit.

Which was just what Johann was trying to avoid within his respirator.

The Terminator before him (Pontero, if Johann remembered correctly) lowered his massive boot into a bulge of brown-green goop, emitting a sickening squelch that made Johann gag. Nevertheless, he continued forward, Hotshot Lasgun at the ready and breakfast settled to a tolerable level. To be frank, Johann could have had it worse: lugging around a Hellgun pack or stomping about in Terminator plate.

The newly-minted Stormtrooper had long since abandoned the notion of retreat. Once embarked upon the Thunderhawk  _Unto Darkness_ , he knew he was on desperate ground. Withdraw was not an option amongst the company of the Adeptus Astartes and the Ordo Hereticus. A quick death via spacing was not exactly Johann's cup of recaf. Neither was it Hal's, who quickly realized the consequences of his folly and acted with an eager if-not stressed bounce to his step.

Johannes only scorned the Guardsman more for this. This entire debacle was of his doing, and Johann had wanted no part of it. He had a long career ahead of him, filled with supplications to the Emperor and great deeds on the battlefield, culminating in finally asking out that techpriestess with the pretty red bow. Then he'd settle down, have a family, get brutalized by Tyranids…

A phantom grin eased itself on Johannes' mouth. Good times.

This thought was quickly purged. Halvdan had ruined it all with his plan. It was enough that the plan itself was treasonous and borderline heretical, but now to get the Inquisition involved? Hal may be entitled to his death wish, but Johannes wanted no part in it.

Though, with more deliberation, Johann found a strange idea come upon him. Every Guardsman of the Imperium possessed some form of innate individualism (Johann could not say the same for the Maccabian Janissaries or the Korpsmen of Krieg, but they were not exactly known for their lively personalities), and Halvdan was certainly not his superior ('Hall Monitor' was not an accepted rank in the Guard, no matter how hard Hal wanted it to be). With all that in mind, why did Johannes join him? Going behind the back of his superior officers and placing himself in mortal danger just to stick by his squadmate?

Johannes scoffed. Credit where credit was due, the fool was a persuasive man.

There was another squish succeeded by the clanging of ceramite plasteel and the faint clicks of Pontero's vox as he chuckled. Johann noticed that this was the norm for the Marine, letting loose a morbid giggle as he treaded over the slowly increasing amount of viscous globs. Having the Sergeant nearby was no better, as the veteran was deadly silent throughout the journey save the similar clicks of her vox as she conversed with her squadmates.

The party continued to trudge forward through the corridors of the Space Hulk. The sizes varied, morphing from thin accessways barely able to fit a single Terminator to grand halls where the entire boarding party could walk abreast. The jagged paths were strewn the bones of various species and the rare hull-scrap of a neighboring vessel. All was silent as the grave, a mausoleum in the depths of space. Then the Space Marines halted.

The Deathwing Sergeant raised her massive gauntlet in pause. The party almost instantly readied their weapons and tensed for an oncoming attack. The Astartes, two in rear and three at the fore, moved to choke the hallways whilst Johann, Halvdan, and the Sisters moved to protect the Inquisitor. Though Johannes was not learned in the operation of the Hotshot Lasgun, he tried his hardest not to look a complete fool. However, the Sergeant did not fancy to train her weapon into the distance, and instead gestured with her Power Fist to a small crevice in the floor plating.

Her voice crackled through the external vox. "Stormtrooper Barishnikov, there is an object within the crevice. Retrieve it for me."

Johannes' heart skipped a beat. He swept his gaze first to Hal (if the Adeptus Mechanicus could weaponize a simple glare, half of the  _Reaper of Stars_  would cease to exist), and then to the Lord Inquisitor. Buried amongst the Sororitas, the Inquisitor looked impassive behind his own respirator, but nodded. While he technically outranked the Marines, the Deathwing were experienced in the matters of the Hulks. Only a fool would disregard their council.

With a prayer to the Emperor muttered beneath his breath, Johannes advanced forward, lasgun raised and ready. Though restricted by their gargantuan frames, the Terminators left a small opening in their line large enough for the Guardsman to squeeze through. There was a peculiar sensation as Johann left the safety of the formation. No longer was there a wall of ceramite at his fore, nor a shield of righteous zeal behind him. A line of Storm Bolters was little comfort, for a meagre man was of no importance compared to a hive of Genestealers. The clutch on his lasgun grew stronger.

Johann shook away these thoughts. "'Be vigilant and strong'," he whispered to the darkness. "'The Emperor knows what evil lurks in the vacillation of a weak fool.'"

The darkness before said weak fool seemed to devour the light from his barrel-mounted flashlight. As much as he wanted to keep trained upon the wall of shadow before him, the Guardsman slowly kneeled into place beside the tiny indentation in the hull. With reluctance, he shined his flashlight into the crevice. It was a miniscule thing, barely a centimeter in depth, but covered in what Johann could only assume was dried blood. Against the crimson canvas, the object was not a hard thing to find.

He held it up to his light. It was by no means small, but it could still easily fit within the palm of his hand. Daring not to stay away for long, Johann rose and returned to the formation with haste. Johannes dropped the object into Sergeant Dionysia's outstretched gauntlet and the Astartes raised her powered hand up as far as the armor would allow her. She rolled it around and examined the item thoroughly, leaving Johann to duck past her and back into the defensive line.

"A Bolt casing," she stated simply.

"Ancient, too," added Pontero. "That's not from any modern pattern I'm familiar with, Brother-Sergeant."

The third Terminator in the vanguard, an Assault Cannon-armed Astartes with various engraved skulls dangling from his waist, interjected. "Yet it shows no signs of decay. No rust, no scarring. It is as if it was newly issued."

"It matters not," replied Dionysia. "We must continue the mission. We can examine the casing at a later date."

And so she passed the casing back to Johann, who was tasked with its safety until the end of the mission. The party continued on.

It was not long before they found the bodies.

While the bulkhead itself offered no resistance to Pontero's Chainfist, the Astartes was repulsed by what lay beyond. Looking past, Johann's own courage threatened to betray him. Unlike previous quadrants of the vessel, there was enough power left in the lights to gaze upon the slaughter. Dull yellow lighting fell upon the forgotten cemetery.

One of the Sororitas, a petite Sister who's Flamer seemed slightly oversized for her grip, managed to trip upon one of the erstwhile members of this macabre diorama. She gazed at the obstacle and recoiled. While dark black plate (or so Johann assumed, beneath the thick coats of dried blood) shrouded the figure's main body, the head remained exposed. A skull, still covered with thin strips of decaying flesh, returned her stare with empty sockets.

Such dark figures blanketed the chamber. Piled high in mass graves, these silent guardians lay in pools of dried life fluid. They gripped ancient weapons in their final throes, as if expecting further conflict from beyond death. Bolters of many primeval patterns and Chainswords bearing lavish decor were littered amongst the party.

The Sister Superior went to kneel beside her comrade, and gave the woman a helpful hand in regaining her feet. The senior Sororitas went back and examined the armored corpse. Millennia of battle and weathering has made the armor almost unrecognizable, but any man would know the make of it's armor. "A Space Marine," she stated through the vox. "No identification I can find, My Lord."

The Inquisitor moved to the corpse, kneeling down and brushing a gauntlet across the hulking pauldrons. The rounded armor was pockmarked with gashing and projectile scarring, showing more the grey steel of the armor than the midnight of its decoration. The Inquisitor ran his eyes along the corpse and 'hmm'ed. "This armor is a pre-Heresy pattern. Could be Iron Hands, Raven Guard..."

He spared a glance to the advancing Terminators. "...or Dark Angel."

These mysterious dead were not alone, as was soon found out by the party. Johann had to constantly maneuver past mountainous swells of bone that pockmarked the chamber. There the brutish skulls and haphazard manufacturing of the Orks. The slim builds and intimidating weaponry of the pirate Eldar. Untold numbers of xenos littered the area. It was a mausoleum to the universe.

In his idle musings, Johann made sure to avoid the Tyranid Carnifex's rotting carcass.

Pontero detached from his squad, advancing to the fore. The Astartes began treading upon the alien remains indiscriminately and growled. "The xenos do not deserve the honor to be buried with our brothers. They taint this sanctum with their very essence."

Johann flinched as ceramite connected hard with thick bone. Dust was all that remained of the Ork skull.

"Temper your anger, Brother," the Deathwing Sergeant chided. "Your faith must be a finely-tipped spear with which to defeat our enemies, not a wild animal. We shall purge this Hulk of the xenos in due time. The mission comes first."

Suitably chasted, Pontero agreed to the Sergeant's words and grunted through the vox, a guttural, garbled sound through the grille. Brushing past his comrades and the rest of the boarding party, he headed towards the far end of the chamber, where there lay a massive door. It was at least twice as tall as any Astartes and three times as wide. It was inlaid with gold and silver, detailing great victories in a sort of metal tapestry. On further inspection, Johann had found the entrance to be sealed, welded shut by an ancient force.

"Explosives are out of the question," the Assault Cannon-laden Deathwing stated over the vox. "The structural integrity of the complex is questionable."

Dionysia tramped forward amongst her five brothers, her helm studying the entry. "Then we cut our way through. Brother Pontero, cut away the seals you can reach. Brothers Azermai, Kullman, and Seth will breach."

The Sergeant turned to the Lord Inquisitor. "My Lord," she began, "I recommend we position the Adepta Sororitas to secure this chamber. You and the Stormtroopers shall be our rearguard once the adjacent chamber is breached."

Of course, the Lord Inquisitor agreed, and the Sisters spread out amongst the chamber as the Sister Superior relayed orders over the squad vox. Pontero cut into the gargantuan door, his Chainfist howling as toothed, gyrating metal screeched against ancient decor. The remaining Deathwing lined up behind their brother, followed by the Sergeant, flanked by Johann, Hal, and the Lord Inquisitor.

For several tense moments, Johann tried and failed to control his breathing. His was a place in an important point of history. An almost primeval vessel, perhaps from the ages of the Great Crusade themselves, was about to opened up by the finest of the Imperium. Millennia of ancient technology and history would be recovered from such a find, and a lowly hive-dweller was going to witness every moment of it. It filled Johann with nervous excitement.

Yet, a sense of dread washed over him. A quick glance traveled across the chamber. Dead Astartes lay here, and their killers may still be at large. An Ork Warboss could barge through the doors in a bloodrage, or perhaps a band of Eldar corsairs. Johann felt his will fade as thoughts of the Archenemy consumed his thoughts. He felt the urge to flee, to run through the band of Sisters and into the depths of the Hulk. Anywhere save this massacre.

But it was too late. The Deathwing breacher had finished his craft, and the Terminators stood ready. The Sergeant thundered towards the door, her left arm crackling as the massive Power Fist was activated. Behind her, the other Marines stood, weapons readied and aimed. The Sergeant brought her gauntlet up and back, humming with a hungering power. For a moment, there was silence.

"Breaching!"

The massive fist collided with the door, sending dust and debris flying from the metal. The decor at the impact point imploded and shook violently before the door itself finally gave way. As soon as it burst open, the Dark Angels rushed in at best speed, lights dancing in the darkness and their voxes clicking spastically. The Inquisitor rushed in behind them, and Johann was quick to follow besides Hal. The pair moved in, weapons raised and hunting, and the Inquisitor himself had brandished an ornate, long-barreled hand cannon aimed into the blackness.

Surprisingly, the first feelings were not of excruciating pain heart-killing surprise, but simply  _cold_. Indeed, the chamber was in almost sub-zero temperatures, a bone-biting cold that seeped through even the heavy stormtrooper plate. Ice crystals danced in the air and coated the deck, which itself was covered in discarded weapons and armor, and what looked like a great banner, fallen from its mountings.

The cold was unimportant, however. Johann barely registered stimulus to this new embrace of frost. Rather, he was too numb to react. He did not know if it was out of fear, awe, or both, but he could not move. His Lasgun was locked in his grip mid-presentation, and booted feet bolted in place to the ice-laden floor plating. He simply stared ahead, eyes wide.

And in kind, the dead god stared back with burning eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're still reading this?
> 
> Daaaaamn.


	3. Mechanicus et Inquisition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Inquisitor, a Magos, and a Battle-Sister walk into a Orbital Defence Station...

One would not be wrong in saying that the Inquisition and the Adeptus Mechanicus worked together as well as an Ultramarine instructing a pack of Space Wolves. The Tech-priests of Mars and their mysterious Machine Faith were heavily scrutinized by the Emperor's Inquisition, but were considered useful enough to the Imperium that they kept their distance. Should the Mechanicum prove wanting, no doubt a bloody affair would be raged ever so close to Terra.

However, Magos Errant Eideard 5573-1111 was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Of course, the Inquisitor took his time arriving. The din of Hangar Bay #12 ground about him as Guardsmen and fellow Tech-priests attended to the fighter squadrons stationed within. Eideard himself felt somewhat nostalgic at the thought of being surrounded by such a bustle of activity. To think he had risen from such a lowly position himself so many years prior was almost unbelievable.

A scowl. Eideard took the sharp prick of pain from his neural cogitator without rebuke. Progress and achievement could only be acquired through providence of the Machine-Spirit and hard toils in the name of the Omnissiah. What's done is done, and such things shall lay in the past. Technology shall be the light that illuminates the way of man, not memories.

"Are you well, Lord Magos?"

Now, the Magos was by no means a welcoming figure. His face was an amalgamation of metal and flesh, metal plate, beady cybernetic eyes, and a square-ish vox-grille taking up his features. Beneath his billowing red robes, a similar philosophy was practiced, where most of his flesh was replaced with churning machinery. From his back sprang great mechadendrites of multiple varieties, from great, looming arms to blackened plasma torches.

So, it was somewhat of a surprising sight when Eideard looked toward the being who had addressed him.

Or rather,  _looked_   _up_ at them.

"I am in an adequate condition, Tech-priest," the Mechanicus representative replied somewhat indignantly as he addressed the speaker. "I assume you are to be my assistant for the duration of my stay?"

She was lithe, yet could withstand the weight of the servo-harness, itself hidden beneath layers of red robes bordered by a white cog pattern. Her face, largely unblessed with machinery, was of pale skin framed by locks of reddish hair. Eyes were set back in her skull, one a cerulean prosthetic, and the other a vibrant emerald orb.

A whirring mechanical limb brought the Enginseer's hand to her own trapezoid-cast vox-grille in embarrassment and gave a curt bow. "Y-yes, my lord. Tech-priest Enginseer Rei Kostanian, at your disposal."

Eideard grunted, internal systems running through subroutines and software. "I was told you would be at the ready before 0700 Martian time, Enginseer Kostanian. Yet, I arrive and find you nowhere in sight."

"A-a thousand pardons, my Lord Magos," Rei started, bowing lower this time to just at height with the Magos, "I was at the utmost alertness and readiness for your arrival, but there were...d-difficulties in locating you..."

"Did my height play a factor in this endeavour?"

Kostanian did not budge. "...Yes, Lord Magos. I was expecting someone...of somewhat greater stature."

' _Not a half-pint bean-sprout midget?'_

A sigh escaped the Errant's vox-grille. Credit where credit was due, the Enginseer proved a courageous servant. "Such an implication," Eideard began, voice underlined with thin disappointment, "was to be expected. However, you have no less but failed an order. My servitors unload my belongings from the ship as we speak. In atonement, assist them."

No sooner had the Magos finished his order that a clamorous bang resounded through the din of the hangar bay, and Kostanian was sent scurrying towards the vessel with a tirade of apologies, prayers, and curses flooding from her vox-grille. Eideard merely buried his face in his clawed prosthetic hands and moved on. While he could request a more... _competent_  assistant from the ranks of the lower Tech-priests, he had no doubt that such an action would probably topple the sloth and precarious hierarchy that had wormed its way into Argus' ranks.

To the Errant, such a thing was less than acceptable.

Moving farther into the interior of the hangar, the Magos let his mind wander once more. A foolish act, but he let himself commit to these thoughts. A sharp mechanical gaze fell upon the hubbub of the deck crews, Enginseers in their chants, Fury Interceptors and the larger Starhawk Bomber craft running their preflight checks, a hive of activity that was similarly practiced throughout Cadian space.

In the depths of the orderly confusion, the access lift opened up to reveal a bustling crowd of crewmen. As soon as the great bulkhead opened up, they came pouring out like ichor from some great plasteel beast. Either out of fear or respect, the lines of Guardsmen and pilots parted as Eideard advanced through the swarm. His cybernetics found his target easily, a figure distanced from the tide and avoided by other personnel like a festering infection.

The Errant was somewhat taken aback by him. Many of his ilk had come the Magos' company before, protruding enough ego and pride to send a servitor into sleep mode. Yet, here, as the Lord Inquisitor strode (more of a brisk lurch, from untactful eyes) out onto the hangar deck, The Mechanicus servant could describe him with but one phrase:

He looked like utter garbage.

He was a ragged man, this agent of the Ordo Hereticus, exhausted and brutalized by his work. Bags, not large but still evident, had formed beneath his eyes, themselves holding a tired expression. Unkempt stubble swept across hard features, joining with his mop of raven hair. His trenchcoat looked fringed, and the stylized black carapace beneath seemed to have been assembled in a hurry.

"My most sincere apologies, Magos," the Lord Inquisitor began with a respectful bow. "A number of complications kept me from attending to your arrival. Paperwork and the likes, as you know."

The Mechanicus agent waved a mechadendrite dismissively and replied with his own bow. "Think nothing of it. The Omnissiah's will is never ending, and his servants must be of constant vigilance. Your absence is of little consequence."

The Inquisitor nodded in understanding, but the Magos had his doubts. "You have been briefed upon me prior, yes?"

The Mechanicus representative gave a few rapid staccato clicks with his vox-grille and nodded. A Hereticus lacky; the worst. "Of course, Lord Inquisitor, but I do believe I have been acquainted with you before," the Magos said, drawing forth a hand from his billowing red robes, a metallic claw almost skeletal in nature. "Lord Magos Errant Eideard 5573-1111, representative of the Omnissiah, Mars, and the Adeptus Mechanicus."

The Inquisitor's eyebrow briefly raised, but he took the hand and hook it nonetheless. "Charmed."

The ragged agent then turned briskly and began to return to the access lift. Eideard blurted a short line in his Binary and moved to follow. At platform awaited two of the Inquisitor's party, Sororitas clad in the white-on-red-on-black ensemble of one of their Orders, furnished with Bolters and combat knives. At their head stood a Sister in slightly more ornate armor, her long silver hair flowing out behind her and framing piercing red eyes.

Had the Magos' spine not been replaced with crankin plasteel years prior, a chill would have traversed down it.

The Inquisitor's retinue and the Lord Magos took the ride up the lift in utter silence, saver few choice exchanges concerning the nature of the deployment. A Space Hulk was by no means a small matter, but Eideard could not remember a greater mobilization in the Cadian sector than this. Precautions had to be taken, he calculated. Even with the wealth of Dark Age technology no doubt within, a few lance batteries could save them all the trouble.

Then again, the Magos' unorthodox views weren't exactly the best, either.

Their desired level was reached, and a few short walk determined the distance to the Inquisitor's temporary headquarters almost lazily. Station personnel spared nary a glance in the direction of the party as they traveled, and then stopped coming down the corridor entirely. A single doorway appeared in the hall, surrounded by Guardsmen in armor as black as night and stock-still; the Inquisitor's personal Stormtroopers.

"And this," the Inquisitor stated, "is where I take my leave. Sister Hisau," he gestured to one of the Sororitas accompanying them, one of average height and completely encased in her armor, "will show you to your immediate quarters. If any problems arise, you know where to contact me."

The Magos let loose a few clicks and held up his hand. "There is still one more item we have yet to discuss, Lord Inquisitor."

"Oh?"

"The…'initiative' you so heartily displayed."

The Inquisitor's mouth twitched into a frown for a scant second, then returned to an impassive stare. "The mission was accomplished, and numerous archeological finds were unearthed. I see no foul there."

"Normally, I would agree," Eideard began with a wave of a mechadendrite. "However, you still overstepped the compromise agreed amongst the Inquisition and Mechanicum negotiators. The Ordo Xenos Inquisitor will no doubt be... _displeased_  with your actions."

"He finds fault in my every move. I'd expect nothing less."

The Magos 'tched'. Either he overestimated this man's intelligence or underestimated his experience. "And then there is the question of the finds," the Mechanicus agent inquired. "I expect the Inquisition to hand over the investigation of the artifacts to the ranking Mechanicus representatives, which extends to myself and…" he paused, biting back a sigh "Enginseer Kostanian."

' _For whatever the kook is worth.'_

 

**/]O[\**

“ACHOO!”

The servitor turned about, it’s pale machine-infused arms carrying with him several crates. “Are you alright, my lord?” it asked, the cyborg’s voice monotonous.

Rei waved a mechadendrite dismissively. “No trouble, three-eighteen. Return to your task.”

As the servant withdrew, Rei advanced further into the hold of the transport and put a whirring prosthetic hand to her vox-grille. “I didn't know I could sneeze with this on.”

 

**/]O[\**

"That was the point agreed upon by our superiors," the Hereticus agent replied, hands clasped and tired eyes narrowed, "but the subject of your research has been changed; the materials have been placed under quarantine until deemed otherwise. None may touch them."

If it could, Eideard's eye would have twitched.

The Magos replied, keeping his voice level. "And under whose authority has this order been passed without my knowledge?"

"Officially, my own," the Inquisitor began, the faint spirit of a jovial tone in his hard voice. "However, if you request the full details and protocols associated with the command…"

The Lord Inquisitor motioned to the white-haired Sororitas at his side, who withdrew a roll of aged parchment from her side and gave it to her superior. The agent studied the scroll for a moment, as if questioning if this action was indeed the right course. It must have been in his mind, for the man then proceeded to roll out the piece of legislation.

And the spectators of the entire debacle watched as the end of the scroll bounced thirteen times along the plasteel tiles to a nonexistent melody, before finally ending in the access lift. Every blank space of the parchment was most likely deemed heretical, and as such the entire expanse was covered in a scandalous amalgamation of High and Low Gothic, local dialects of what looked like a bastardization of Valhallan and Vostroyan, and idle scribbles that some imaginative scribe must have thought would pass as Techna-Lingua. With his right eye, the Magos saw a flicker of a grin from the Inquisitor's aide.

It was that day that Magos Eideard 5573-1111 learned to  _never_  give  _anyone_  the benefit of the doubt.

 

**/]O[\**

The Inquisition had a multitude of tasks to fulfill in the Emperor's name. To those of the Ordo Hereticus fell the mission of rotting out the traitor and the heretic amongst the faithful, and to march upon the mutant with drums of war (or at least vox casters). To the Ordo Xenos came the task of warding off the foul alien from the blessed lands of the Imperium, and gather from them their technologies and biology. To the Ordo Malleus was given the order to purge the daemons of the Great Enemy, and to remove from the Materium traces of taint.

Severely pissing off a Magos of the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Sister Superior had long realized, did not fall under any of those directives.

Such were the circumstances the Sororitas found herself in that early morning (or evening, maybe; it had been a while since she had seen the sun). The Magos, "Eideard", had taken the Inquisitor's missive with the swipe of a mechadendrite and began to retrace his (or her, possibly) steps back to the access lift. A twitch asserted itself on the Inquisitor's face for a brief moment throughout the exchange, before he turned back to the entrance of his office and the two saluting Stormtroopers.

"Have I told how much I despise dealing with the Mechanicus?"

The Sister put a finger to her chin. "Yes, Lord Inquisitor. Three times, in fact."

"The Van Kaelin Campaign was the first incident, if I remember correctly."

"When the Tech-priest overseeing the camp motor pool tried to bludgeon you to death," the Sororitas replied with a poorly hidden giggle as the pair entered the Inquisitor's accommodations. "I do love his ring, by the way."

The "office" appropriated for the Hereticus Inquisitor was little more than a glorified storage space. The Stormtroopers had moved the majority of the crates that had dominated the room previously to the back, but a few still remained in their spots, or repurposed to the uses of the Inquisitor. A stack of dusty crates served as a makeshift desk, littered with piles of crumpled report papers, and in the rear sat a simple cot. Besides that, it was spartan in its design and decor, though almost lavish in comparison to other stations used by the Hereticus agent.

The bowels of a Hive sewer pump were not exactly the most comfortable of accommodations.

Sighing, the Inquisitor dropped into a bare metal chair behind the box-desk, glancing at reports with tired eyes. Following him, the Sister Superior enveloped the Inquisitor in a soft hug and placed her head upon his shoulder.

"Hugging an agent of the His Inquisition is considered high treason, Sister."

"Oh, somebody stop me!" was the mocking reply.

The Inquisitor patted a holster at his side. "That can be arranged, Iri."

"Aw, Kiri-kiri," the Superior pouted, "you can be so cruel at times."

Silence reigned again in the small office-space, punctuated only be the muffled sounds of machinery in the bowels of the station and idle conversation from the Stormtroopers outside. The Inquisitor continued his vigil over the marauding stacks of AARs, noble invitations, and missives from the Inquisitorial representatives. To the Adepta Sororitas, he paid no heed, as the Sister was content to simply develop him in a gentle embrace. She shuffled in her stance and nestled her head into the Inquisitor's neck.

"Maybe you should take a break, Kerry," she started in a whisper. "All this work is gonna give you insomnia."

The Inquisitor simply grunted and began flipping through a red-lettered report. "I can sleep when I'm dead. I have more important things to do."

"But if you're dead, who will I sleep with?"

The Inquisitor needn't turn his head to see the Sister's small smile; it practically radiated off of her like heat from a plasma cannon. Another, much quieter sigh left the agent's lips as he set down the report.

"Any new information on the archeological finds?"

"Kerry-"

"New information?" the Inquisitor refuted.

A frown was the Sister's first response, letting go of her superior and rising to her full height. A small exhalation marked her disappointment, but said nothing more on the matter. "The Astartes Techmarine hasn't reported any new findings as of yet, nor have the sanctioned Tech-priests. No reports of xenos taint or heresy."

"And the live samples?"

"Sergeant Dionysia reports activity from subjects zero-zero-one and zero-zero-seven. However, the others are still comatose. The Dark Angels strike force lacks the equipment to bring the subjects out of hibernation."

The Inquisitor hummed appreciatively and brought out a lengthy piece of parchment marked with a wax seal and handed it to his subordinate, not taking his eyes off the reports and briefings upon his desk. "Give this to the Techmarine. Only the personnel listed may be allowed access to the materials or their items until further notice. Once the Excoriators arrive, we can begin proper analysis."

The Sororitas accepted the note, but stopped herself as a thought came to her mind. A grin eased itself unto her face

"And for the 'improper analysis?'"

The Inquisitor stood up from his desk, straightened his jacket, and gave the Sister a quick peck on the cheek. "How long do I have until the  _Sanctus Inferno_  docks with the station, Iri?"

The Sister's grin widened and returned her own brief kiss. "Do you promise to take nap afterwards?"

A grunt. "Yes."

"Thirty minutes."

In the time it took for those words to leave her lips, the Inquisitor had already booked himself a one-way trip out of the office-space, leaving in a flash of black followed by the knocking over of several crates and a flimsy door kicked off of its moorings.. From the other side of the now-unhinged doors, the black-suited Stormtroopers gave shocked expressions to the Sororitas.

Sister von Einzbern, Sister Superior of the Order of Our Martyred Lady and right hand of the resident Hereticus Inquisitor, could only laugh.

 

**/]O[\**

There was no light in the cell, but she could see. In spite of starvation, she did not hunger. In the face of cold, she did not shiver.

Such was it to be a Sword of the Imperium, one of its Angels of Death.

If the Imperium even remained. She did not discredit her fellow loyalists or the great Emperor himself, but the size and might of the Traitor Legions was daunting even to an amassed strike force of the Emperor's Angels. Her time in the Warp may too have played a part. Perhaps the Emperor and Imperium of her time was a fleeting myth of the universe of now, or a future yet realized.

She wondered her fate. Interrogation was a likely choice, then either execution or debasement by her captors. Either option would end her life similarly; honorable death in combat, breaking free of her chains to stand against the foe. A suitable redemption for her carelessness.

Such an idea could be fulfilled in her current form, however. Her captors had stripped of her possessions, leaving her all but naked. Though still a formidable combatant on her lonesome, she was but a common man to a seasoned Astartes of the Traitor Legions. She would need a plan, and allies to carry it out.

Her mind raced to her comrades. Were they alive? Had they sacrificed themselves in an effort to protect her, or were they still amongst the living, similarly chained and degraded to prison refuse? They would not have run, she knew. They would have stayed, so either they now entreated the holding cells around her, or now rotting in the corpse of her cruiser.

Not again.

She was being lax in her duties. She should have taken into account such a predicament, come the counter-assault at Terra. The Primarch would be most displeased no doubt, but a crusade of penitence could wait. She would make every effort to recompense if she got out, once this was over.

 _No…'when'_.

For now, she would bide her time and strike once the odds were evened. She needed weapons and information, above all. A layout of this facility, guard patrols, security measures, escape routes. Then she would make for the other cells and find her comrades...or their corpses.

But now, she would have patience and wait.

To wait...just as she had for so long. For the first time in countless millennia, she stared into the darkness with the burning eyes, and felt her sword-arm ache in anticipation.

 _It will be good_ , she thought,  _to be His Sword once more. Perhaps this shall be my recompense to you, Lancelot..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So yeah, that took me a while to make, as will every subsequent chapter because I have the reliability of a shoddy Plasma gun.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: In the grim darkness of the far future, people die when they are killed. 
> 
> Any and all criticism or commentary is appreciated, ladies and germs.


End file.
